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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847973">and death was a joke</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore'>worrylesswritemore</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Vampire, Attempt at Humor, F/M, I mean it's me we're talking about so angst will come along, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, author takes liberties with vampire lore, it will have a happy ever after tho, level of seriousness in the vein of what we do in the shadows, macabre lightness around the subject of death, not interview with a vampire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:40:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrylesswritemore/pseuds/worrylesswritemore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you afraid of me?” He asks, not a whisper but a rumble—like that’s only as far as he can manage to soften.<br/>Rey thinks about it. And it should be a yes, given that she has to think about a question like that. But it’s not. As he reaches for her hand, she answers, “No.”<br/>His hand diverts from its destination, turning her palm open-faced as his fingers settle on the inside of her wrist. He murmurs, “Would you like to be?”</p><p>:: - ::</p><p>Rey works the graveyard shift, and Kylo Ren becomes fixated on a peculiar mortal.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and death was a joke</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title inspired by a line of "If we were vampires" by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. </p><p>This is just going to be short fic that lets me de-stress from everything that's going on in the world right now. </p><p>Not every chapter will be as long as this one; it's just that the set-up took me way longer than I anticipated.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“They’re called resurrection men,” Maz Kanata says, her cape flapping dramatically as she weaves in and out of the tombstones. Spools of gossamer collect on the dark fabric, and Rey has to stifle the urge to sweep across her back. It doesn’t seem like the small woman cares that much anyway; the kind of person that wears <em> capes </em> probably thinks cobwebs accent the whole look.</p><p>“How’s their success rate?” she murmurs in reply, her gaze slanting to keep a wary eye on each row of stone. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting. It’s not like “Night of the Living Dead” would ever happen on a Wednesday.</p><p>It takes Maz a beat to understand her implication. “No, no,” she says, with a raucous laugh. “That’s just an archaic moniker, my girl. They don’t try to revive the dead; they just steal from them.” Rey nods. Thievery, she understands all too well. She grew up in Jakku—those that took away tokens and trophies weren’t breaking the law. They <em> were </em> the law. Hell, grave-robbing could even be considered more moral than regular pick-pocketing. At least the unsuspecting man on the street would have used the money in his wallet. </p><p>Struck by her own callousness, Rey quickly banishes the thought from her mind. Of course it’s an awful thing to disturb a corpse in a cemetery. It might not hurt the dead, but it certainly traumatizes the living. Besides, in a world of temporaries, it’s a comforting thought that at least death offers a final resting place. Or, well, it<em> did </em>—until last month.</p><p>Rey doesn’t know much about the current situation in Takodana. She has only caught flashes of it on the news—mounds of upturned dirt; splintered coffins torn apart; teary-eyed, seething families—but it’s enough to know that Maz Kanata is being just the right amount of cautious to bring in a watchman.</p><p>She doesn’t really consider herself a security guard—much like she doesn’t consider herself a mechanic, or a waitress, or any other of the odd jobs she semi-regularly maintains—but Maz didn’t look very hard into her credentials. Maybe if she had, she would know the only experience Rey has under her belt is monthly bingo nights at a place in Canto Bight.</p><p>“I figured a camera would be enough,” Maz tells her as they make their way toward the shed that has been fashioned into a control room. “If it didn’t scare the bastards away, at least I’d catch them on tape.”</p><p>That would mean a damned computer taking another one of Rey’s jobs. And yet— “It didn’t work?”</p><p>“I came back the next morning, and two graves were torn up—right in front of the camera. Looked through the footage, and nothing.” she shrugged. “Thought I might as well try some human eyes.” Maz Kanata’s cemetery is just one of a dozen similar places that have been hit in the last month. Though Rey hasn’t paid much attention to the situation, a sudden burst of curiosity—or maybe the instinct of self-preservation, given that she has to stay here all night—flits inside her chest. </p><p>“What have they stolen?” Rey asks. Cash? Jewels? Organs of poorly trained guards?</p><p>“The bodies don’t have anything to give,” she responds. “My clients aren’t well-to-do, not like the ones on the news. Most of these plots are pauper graves.” A wave of relief surges through Rey. Perhaps, since the gravediggers didn’t find anything valuable the first time, they won’t be back.</p><p>When they enter the shed that will be Rey’s resting place for the next eight hours, she has to duck down to fit through the slumped doorway. She surveys her surroundings. It’s cramped but tidy. And Maz even lent her a lawn chair. Not too shabby.</p><p>Maz presses a skeleton key into the palm of Rey’s hand. It makes the corner of her mouth twitch into a small smile. Working the graveyard shift at a cemetery with a skeleton key? The situation borderlines parody.</p><p>“Your hands are tough,” the woman informs her, her bony fingers sliding against the calluses of her palm. Rey just blinks. “Good. I was worried when I first saw you; you have skinny arms.” Then, Rey frowns. “But it’s your hands that really matter. They can reveal a lot about a person.” Right. She wears a cape. This crazy talk all checks out.</p><p>Rey’s brow furrows, curiosity once again getting the better of her, “What do mine reveal?”</p><p>Maz smiles, laugh lines forming around her cheeks. It adds another pound of wrinkles to her shriveled face. “You’re a wandering soul—trustworthy, foolhardy, and resilient.” Rey has heard something similar from phone psychics (it was a phase, alright?), but it’s Maz’s next words that give her pause: “You’re on a trajectory for tragedy, you know? You think it comes to you, but sometimes, when things get too quiet, you seek it out.”</p><p>Rey withdraws her hand fast. Her voice is sharp and hard like flint. “I’m not here to be psychoanalyzed.” </p><p>Maz nods. She doesn’t look offended by the rebuff, but Rey still feels the urge to apologize. It’s an old habit, drilled into her by lesser men. <em> You back-talked me. You embarrassed me. You disobeyed me. Come here, you little scavenger— </em></p><p>Rey squeezes the key in her palm until it breaks the skin, snapping her out of the memories. She’s not a scared little girl anymore. And she <em> doesn’t </em> seek out tragedy. She’s had enough to last her a few lifetimes.</p><p>“I’ll lock the gate behind me,” Maz says. “Lock up when you leave at six.” She presses a wad of cash into Rey’s hands. Rey looks down at it. Usually, no one pays her in advance, and unless this is all in one dollar bills, it’s more than the agreed upon price. She suddenly forgets her anger. She wants to embrace this woman.</p><p>“I know you’re good for it,” Maz explains, catching her wide eyes.</p><p>And with that, Maz Kanata is gone, leaving Rey shuttered away in a glorified closet with just a faulty flashlight, a stack of MAD magazines, and a revolver.</p><p>The gun had been Finn’s idea. <em> You need to protect yourself, </em> he’d told her, still mildly upset with her for taking the job in the first place. <em> There’s dangerous people out there, Rey. </em>At the time, she’d scoffed and been defensive, and even just an hour ago, when she was packing for the night, she’d hesitated before stuffing it into her coat. Now, though, with the reality of her situation finally sinking in, she’s glad she has it.</p><p>Logically, Rey knows she’s safe. At the first sight of trouble, she calls the police. She does not engage with the robbers. She certainly does not <em> detain </em> them, thank you very much, <em> Poe </em> (“Fuck the cops. Let’s bring back torches and pitchforks and vigilante justice.” “Dameron, <em> no.</em>”). She’s essentially just a canary in a coal mine. And, if her phone call leads to the arrest of Takodana’s menace, maybe they’ll name a library after her or something. </p><p><em> An entire library, </em> she considers idly, melting into the lawn chair, <em> or just one of those engraved park benches that are too uncomfortable to sit on? </em>Either’s fine, she decides. She’s not too picky about her legacy. </p><p>Letting the misplaced bravado lull her anxiety, Rey kicks her feet and flips open the magazine.</p><p>:: - ::</p><p>The cemetery is not large. Rey would even go so far as to call it quaint; however, <em> quaint </em> is usually reserved for a bed and breakfast inn, not a—you know, <em> cemetery </em>. </p><p>Because the cemetery is small, it’s quite easy for Rey to hear every bump in the night from her shack. This is a good thing from a security guard’s perspective. This is a very bad thing from a scared-girl-who-watches-too-many-horror-movies perspective. She’s almost called 9-1-1 a few times by the time the clock strikes three, once believing the scuttle she’d heard across the yellowed grass was the feet of grave-robbers. It had actually been a family of foxes, and though the animals probably scattered because of her flashlight rather than her intimidating silhouette, their cowardice did boost Rey’s ego a bit. </p><p>She wishes it were only the foxes keeping her on edge tonight. Though a graveyard mostly serves those who cannot speak, it certainly isn’t quiet. Bugs and bats scream into the night at random intervals. The wind is tunneled through the trees and stone in a way that makes a low, steady howl. Even the shack isn’t safe from intrusion; its flimsy roof seems to be fashioned via Elmer’s glue. Any time that a particular gust of wind blows, the shutters will shudder, loud slaps echoing into the night.</p><p><em> Three more hours, </em> she thinks to herself, a reminder and a wish and a prayer all wrapped up into one. Then, she’ll never visit another cemetery until it’s in a pinewood box of her own. <em> Most of these plots are pauper graves, </em> Maz Kanata’s voice echoes in her thoughts. Rey will probably be buried here, then. She wonders if Maz could tell that from her palms—her lack of money, of family, of answers. Maybe it’s a good thing that she got this job. At least it’ll give her a sneak peek of what’s to come.</p><p>The hair on her arms suddenly stands to attention, like an omen. Like there’s someone here that shouldn’t be. Rey reaches for her cellphone planted on the stack of magazines, but that’s when she sees the black beetle, scaling the right sleeve of her jumper.</p><p>Rey stalls her pathetic reach, breathing a sigh of relief. That must have been what set her nervous system off. After gently cupping the beetle into her two palms, she walks over to the shack’s entrance. She opens the door with her elbows and feet, walking a respectable distance away from the shed toward the treeline. She deposits the beetle onto a low hanging branch. Moonlight washes the beetle’s shell silver, and it looks like a shiny bullet as it begins its trepidatious trek along the tree bark. </p><p>It’s both a surprise and a relief that Rey can see this well at night. The Kanata cemetery doesn’t have curfew-breaking houses or lit street lamps. The graveyard is on the outskirts of Takodana, its closest thread to humanity being a gas station about three miles down the road. With the absence of city lights, the dark stays dark. The only light source Rey has is her mini-flashlight and the moon hung above her. </p><p>Rey tips her head back, letting the light wash over her face. <em> A harvest moon, </em>she recognizes, her gaze skirting across the curve of the moon’s swollen belly. She’d learned that from an old children’s book on astronomy, found on one of her dumpster dives. </p><p>Like “resurrection men,” the idea of a <em> harvest </em> moon bewilders her. What does she have to harvest—or, more likely, would <em> she </em> be the one sewn from the fields? On nights like these, she wonders, would she be the crop or the scythe?</p><p>At that moment, she hears it. That familiar scuttle. </p><p><em> The foxes, </em>she thinks, following in the noise’s direction. </p><p>The sound comes from the outer edge of the cemetery, where the oldest graves are located. It’s the section closest to the field clearing, so Rey isn’t surprised that the foxes would be there. She doesn’t turn on her flashlight, letting the moon guide her steps.</p><p>The fox is a sneaking creature, but so is Rey. She’d been too loud and panicked the first time she’d come across them, seeing only a flash of their bushy tails as they ran away. This time, she’ll try to be more subtle; she wants to see one up close. Rey hunches down and moves slowly, hoping that she can be quiet enough to delay their notice of her arrival. She keeps her gaze on her feet, careful to avoid stepping on any fallen branches or stones. Any sound, no matter how slight, will scare them off.</p><p>Then, as she’s nearly there, Rey hears a new sound—of shovels striking the ground, of someone upturning earth.</p><p>Rey finally looks up, and then up, and then <em> up. </em></p><p>The resurrection man is tall and hooded, dark robes flushed nearly invisible against the dark night. If it weren’t for the moonlight, she probably would have not seen him at all. His friends are easier to spy—three of them, dressed in similar robes except alabaster in color. Their faces are just as obscured, hoods pulled down on their lowered heads as their shovels strike the ground again, upturning soil. The tall one does not help, as if he’s some criminal supervisor. </p><p>None of their heads have turned. They haven’t noticed her. </p><p>Rey should turn around and slip back into the night. She should lock herself in the shed and dial 9-1-1. She should run away. Rey takes a step backward. A twig snaps under her feet.</p><p>The tall one’s head snaps to her direction.</p><p>She still can’t see his face, but she feels his gaze on her, heavy and dull like lead. When he raises a hand, his baggy sleeve slightly retreats, exposing a large, white hand. “You did not see us,” his voice is low, with an undercurrent of silk and steel. “Return to your lodging.”</p><p>Rey blinks, surprised. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t <em> dismissal</em>. Like she’s just a hovering fly. Like she’s quiet and harmless and submissive. Like she’s <em> nothing. </em></p><p>She becomes a bit cross at that.</p><p>“You are trespassing on private property,” Rey blurts out. Her voice is surprisingly steady, despite the tremor in her knees. “If you do not leave <em> at once, </em> I will contact the authorities.” The alabaster robes pause in their excavation, their heads lifting. Rey feels an obnoxious sense of satisfaction. <em> Yes, </em> she thinks furiously, <em> look at me. I’m something to be considered. Something to be afraid of. </em></p><p>The tall one snaps his fingers, once. The alabaster robes resume digging. Then, the tall one takes a step toward her. And another. And <em> another </em>, until his shadow has cast her in total darkness, blocking the moon’s guiding light. </p><p><em> Something to be afraid of. </em> </p><p>Rey takes a step back, nearly tripping on her own feet.</p><p>“You did not see me or my underlings,” he says, harder and louder than before. His words nest at the base of her throat; the blockage only allows her to take quick, shallow breaths. “You will return from whence you came and forget this interaction happened.”</p><p>Rey must have a death-wish. It’s the only reasoning behind the way she repeats, dumbly, “Whence?” Is that even a word? She can’t remember. If she survives this encounter, she’ll have to look it up. </p><p>The tall one stills. His hood has withdrawn enough for Rey to see the hook of a pale nose. “Who are you?” he asks, quiet and severe. </p><p>It occurs to her then that she’d forgotten her cellphone at the shack. She’d meant to grab it before she saw that damned beetle. The only things remaining in her coat pocket are the flashlight, a few candy wrappers, and the...the <em> gun.  </em></p><p>She moves fast—her hand diving toward her pocket—but he’s faster. He grabs her wrist before it can make purchase, and <em> cold </em> is her first thought, and then it’s her only one. <em> Cold cold cold... </em></p><p>“You—” he snarls and then stops, at a loss for words. A beat of silence follows before he regains his train of thought. This time, his voice is less hard, less sure. “You’re not…” He lets go, as if burned by her warmth. </p><p>Rey’s other hand immediately goes to massage her wrist. At the slightest touch, she has to pull back as well, her fingertips singed by the frost. “What did you do?” she demands. It’s some kind of skin-activating poison. She’s dying. She <em> must </em> be dying. She’ll never feel warm again. She’ll be <em> cold cold cold. </em></p><p>“It will pass,” he responds briskly, not too concerned over her panic. As if waiting for his approval, the freezing burn begins to ebb and fade. </p><p>Her wrist no longer hurts, but it is numb. In that way, it is a sharp contrast to every other part of Rey’s body. She is roaring with heat, her panic turning her skin flushed and hot.</p><p>And yet, she remains standing there, allowing this—this <em> snake </em> of a man to loom over her. She should have heeded his initial command. She should have ran. She should run now, but she doesn’t. She <em> can’t </em>, she’s horrified to discover. She’s become a part of the nearby forest, rooted to the spot she stands.</p><p>Rey wonders why <em> they </em> haven’t run. After all, they’ve been caught red-handed in their illicit activity. Even if the police don’t catch them here, she can provide information about them later. Are they really that brazen? Is she really that insignificant?</p><p>“What are you doing?” she asks. Her tone is not as cold and demanding as she would have liked; it’s soft, coiled in curiosity.</p><p>The tall man doesn’t offer an answer immediately. He keeps looking at her, almost like he’s...<em> appraising </em>. </p><p>Oh god, they <em> do </em>steal organs, don’t they? And Rey has just walked up and offered herself like a prized calf.</p><p>“What do you think I’m doing?” There’s something different about his voice this time. It doesn’t sit on her lungs, nor does it weigh heavy in her head. It’s, well—<em>normal, </em> as much as a gravedigger can be described as such. </p><p>Initially, Rey thinks the question is a hypothetical. Then, she considers it a smart-ass remark. As the silence draws longer, she realizes he’s waiting for an answer of her own.</p><p>“I think…” Newsreels flash in her mind—<em> the coffin has been disturbed, </em> wasn’t that the exact wordage? No mention of theft. <em> The bodies don’t have anything to give, </em>Maz Kanata had said of her own experience. Why would the robbers return here, if they hadn’t found any treasures to loot that first time? This isn’t a crime of opportunity. It isn’t random.</p><p>“You’re looking for something,” she realizes quietly. She wants to read his expression—<em>did I get it right? </em>—but he remains more shadow than man, hidden by layers of cloth and darkness.</p><p>For some reason, it feels like a clarification, not a correction, when he replies, “I’m obeying my master.” So he has a <em> master </em>—</p><p>Oh. <em> Oh. </em>Well, at least the weird outfits make more sense.</p><p>Now, Rey’s not one to kinkshame, but <em> this— </em> disturbing burial sites as part of some sub/dom powerplay—is a little...out there. And still, you know, <em> illegal.  </em></p><p>“Look, Mate,” she says gently. “I respect your sexual truth and all, but you can’t—”</p><p>“<em> Excuse </em> me?” the tall one balks, like <em> she’s </em> being the crazy one. “No. That’s— <em> No. </em>” His tone is brittle, but abashed. Like she’d just embarrassed him.</p><p>“Oh,” she thinks back to her only frame of reference: movies. “Is this like some Satan thing then?” Perhaps that should have been her first guess, although satanic rituals seem more far fetched than BDSM roleplay.</p><p>The tall one relaxes. The devil is apparently a <em> relaxing </em> subject of conversation. “Something like that,” he hedges darkly.</p><p><em> Satanists. </em> Who wear dark robes. And dig up graves. And probably sacrifice chickens and calves and—and <em> virgins. </em></p><p>She wonders if she should blurt out a few lines to save herself. Something like <em> Good on you. The gossamer look is totally in season, </em> or <em> you know, I think Lucifer is so misunderstood these days, </em> or <em> I totally shag about. Catch me catching dick on the daily. </em></p><p>Instead, she says, “A bit on the nose, innit?” He doesn’t respond, so she just keeps talking. “The desecration of corpses. The robes. The ‘whence.’”</p><p>“What?” he snaps, and oh, it’s the anger again. She hadn’t noticed that it’d left him until it returned with a vengeance. </p><p>“I’m just saying, you’re trying too hard,” she says. “It’s like you watched a cheesy cult scene from the ‘70s and thought, ‘yeah, that’s it.’”</p><p>“Perhaps you’re right,” the tall one responds, and it’s<em> cold cold cold. </em> “The only thing missing is a blood sacrifice.” His voice husks at <em> blood, </em> and it’s enough to get her feet moving. She shuffles backwards, but each step is like walking through molasses. Maybe he hadn’t poisoned her. Maybe he’d <em> drugged </em> her, and that’s why she’s having these hallucinatory reactions to the simplest tasks.</p><p>“Stay where you are,” he barks, loud enough to bounce against the stone and echo into the night. It’s not a command; it’s much stronger than that. It’s like a thought that burrows inside Rey’s mind and expands until it’s the only thing she can think about. She stops in her tracks, and it is both her choice and not.</p><p>But she still glares at him, holding her chin up in defiance. The robed man takes a step forward—</p><p>“Don’t.” It’s a command that crawls from her throat and splinters through the air. It’s frightening, even to herself.</p><p>The man stops. He watches her, his gaze unseen.</p><p>“It’s you,” he murmurs. Rey doesn’t like the way he says it. </p><p>“Stop,” he’s still looking at her, but it’s the three men that halt their laboring. “It’s her. The girl. Take her.”</p><p>This time, when he moves, she is faster. The gun is cold in her hands, but Rey barely has time to register it before her finger is on the trigger and <em> pulls.  </em></p><p>The bullet cuts through the air first. Then it cuts through the robed man’s chest.</p><p>“Oh dear,” the words fall from Rey’s mouth, her vision whitening around the edges. “Are you alright?” </p><p>But the tall man doesn’t even stagger. His head is downcast, looking at the bullet hole. Without glancing up, he says, calm and serene, “That was ill-advised.”</p><p>Rey runs. </p><p>It’s like her act of violence had broken whatever psychedelic spell she’d been under. She runs fast and far, her feet thudding hard against the solid ground. She doesn’t stop running until she arrives at the shed, slamming the door behind her. It occurs to her that she hadn’t heard footsteps following behind her step, nor the tell-tale prickling of hairs on the nape of her neck. </p><p>With her back firmly pressed against the door, she presses the numbers into her cellphone and holds it to her ear. When the operator picks up, she rushes out, “<em>They’re here. </em> The—The resurrection men…”</p><p>:: - ::</p><p>“Satanists?” the policeman repeats again, his skepticism becoming more evident each time. He’s a dour sort of man, eyes crusted and voice hoarse. He looks like he’s just risen out of bed.</p><p>“Yes,” she confirms briskly. “With shovels and robes.”</p><p>“Did the men <em> say </em> they were Satanists or did you just assume?” <em> Something like that, </em>had been his exact words. Isn’t that a confirmation?</p><p>“Well, one mentioned a blood sacrifice,” Rey mutters and curses herself because that makes it sound even more ridiculous. And it’s not. This is <em> serious</em>. Which makes the policemen’s reactions so far pretty concerning.</p><p>Another cop walks up to them. He casts a sideways look at Rey, looking almost apologetic, before returning his attention to his colleague. “All clear.”</p><p>“Of course they wouldn’t still be here,” she points out, and she sounds defensive. Why is she so defensive?</p><p>His gaze flickers to her again, miffed by the interruption, before continuing, “No graves have been touched.” The other policeman sighs, not looking too surprised. Rey, by contrast, gapes. </p><p>“That’s not right,” she assures them. “You got it wrong. It’s there—the old patch of graves near the field, on the far right. They were digging a deep hole.”</p><p>“No holes,” he rebuffs. “No evidence of any freshly made holes. No upturned dirt. No trails of blood or signs of any struggle.”</p><p>“But I shot him,” she protests. Rey realizes that maybe she shouldn’t keep mentioning that detail to uniformed police officers. However, they don’t seem to take her seriously. They haven’t taken her seriously since they found her curled up on the floor of the shed.</p><p>“Miss—” At Rey’s sharp look, the police officer corrects, “<em>Ma’am, </em> it’s very late. You were here all alone, and you probably kept thinking about the news reports.”</p><p>“And?” she prompts, icy.</p><p>“You could have fallen asleep,” he says it as gently as he can, which makes Rey even more infuriated. “Dozed off, had a nightmare, and then woke up. It could’ve been a half-sleep. You know, the ones where you don’t even realize you’re dreaming.”</p><p>Rey mulls the idea over. Could she have been asleep? She almost dozed off a few times before the encounter, but the bats or wind always woke her before she could fully go down.</p><p>But it had felt so real. The moonlight. The wind. The men.</p><p>Rey shakes her head, though her resolve is noticeably weaker. She looks at the other policeman, asking, “Are you <em> certain </em> you didn’t see anything?” </p><p>He nods, “I searched every tombstone in the entire graveyard. Nothing.”</p><p>Rey casts her gaze at the ground, wishing it would swallow her whole. “Fine,” she relents finally. “Maybe I just—just misremembered, is all.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” the original policeman says. He’s less sympathetic to her than the other one. “It’s happened before. Just be more careful when you call us. This is technically false reporting.”</p><p>“Oh, leave her alone,” the other one tells him before Rey can jump to her own defense. “She got scared. I’d be, too—sitting here alone all night.”</p><p>She’s always hated being talked about over her head, so she butts in, “<em>My mistake, </em> I said. You can leave. It won’t happen again.”</p><p>The officers nod, seemingly thankful that she’s speaking sense. The kinder one asks, “Are you sure you don’t want us to drive you home?” </p><p>Rey shakes her head. She still has two hours left in her shift. She may be a delusional coward, but she certainly isn’t a flake.</p><p>It takes a few more minutes before the officers take her hint and leave, their shiny police car kicking up dust when it speeds down the dirt road. As the cruiser disappears out of sight, Rey gets a cagey sort of feeling. Like she should have swallowed her pride further and let them take her home.</p><p>No, that’s ridiculous. She’s being ridiculous. </p><p>It’s more likely that she had dreamed the whole thing. It explains the weird things—how cold the man’s touch had been, her inability to move, her stupid bravado in the face of actual danger. The more she thinks about it, the more Rey becomes just as convinced as the officers—and the more she becomes disgruntled with herself. After all, cliche-looking Satanists? Is that the best thing her mind could have come up with?</p><p>However, as Rey returns to the shed, she feels herself skirting the fringes of panic yet again. She bypasses the comfort of the lawn chair by sitting down on the floor, her back pressed against the door. </p><p>Could it have all been a dream?</p><p>She retrieves the revolver from where she had stashed in under the magazines. Half-convinced of what she’d find, Rey cups her palm below the gun and unloads it. She expects five bullets to fall into her hand—the full amount of rounds that the gun takes, and the amount that Finn had loaded in there—but only four drop out of the cylinder. She shakes the gun, thinking maybe one had gotten caught. Nothing comes out. She looks into the cylinder itself and finds…</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Four remain. One is missing.</p><p>She stares at the four bullets in her palm for a long time.</p><p>:: - ::</p><p>She doesn’t tell her roommates what had happened. Poe would never let her live it down, and Finn would probably become just as freaked out as she had been about the whole thing. So, she lets it go, hoping that the embarrassing memory will soon become a self-deprecating tale she narrates at the pub. <em> I thought I shot a Satanist! </em>Knowing that that will surely be the case, Rey starts revising the punchline in her head.</p><p>A few nights later, when she and Finn usually pick up their gig at Canto Bight, she shrugs it off, feigning a migraine. </p><p>“Just take Poe instead,” Rey tells him. It’s a bad idea, and Finn calls her out on it.</p><p>“Last time, he became a pool-shark for eighty-year-old ladies by the end of the night,” he reminds her darkly.</p><p>“I wasn’t going to hurt Myrtle,” Poe calls out from his bedroom. In their tiny apartment, he doesn’t have to raise his voice much to be heard from the kitchen. “I just wanted to talk.”</p><p>“She owed you <em> eight dollars</em>!”</p><p>“And I got it, didn’t I?” Poe enters the room, already dressed for the job. “A grandmother always pays her debts.”</p><p>At the topic of old ladies, Rey is suddenly reminded of Maz Kanata. She hasn’t contacted her since that night. Did she find out about the police call to her cemetery? Would she believe Rey about her experience?</p><p>Rey shakes her head. No. It wasn’t real. The police found no disturbance among the grave sites nor any indication that she’d shot someone in the chest. The missing bullet could have happened at any point before that night. Maybe Finn or Poe had taken it once to mess around. Knowing those two, they probably just fired one in the air, just to see how it would feel.</p><p>It probably felt pretty cool. Shit, now Rey wants to do that.</p><p>“Fine,” Finn relents, pointing a finger of warning at the other man. “Just—no schemes tonight. Please? I just want to hang in the corner and stream some <em> My Hero Academia </em>.”</p><p>“Scout’s honor,” Poe pledges, holding one hand over his heart while the other is raised in the air. Rey narrows her eyes. It seems like she’s not the only one telling lies tonight. </p><p>“Maybe one of us should stay,” Finn says, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. “Make sure Rey’s okay.”</p><p>Poe rolls his eyes. Rey has to stifle the urge to follow suit. “Finn, I’m fine.”</p><p>“You <em> never </em> miss work,” he points out. Rey glances away, finding it easier to lie when she’s not looking into his earnest gaze.</p><p>“It’s just a headache,” she claims lightly. “I’ll take some Nyquil and be knocked out cold until you get back.”</p><p>“We’re gonna be late, Buddy,” Poe swoops in to save her, which is entirely unlike him. Most of the time, he can’t stand her (though, to be fair, the feeling is quite mutual). “You can play nursemaid later.”</p><p>Finn finally relents, but not before taking her hands into his own. His hands feel warm and safe. Totally unlike—</p><p>
  <em> It didn’t happen. Move on. </em>
</p><p>“Promise me you’ll call if it gets too bad,” he says, quiet and adamant. Rey rolls her eyes, but she squeezes his hands. Once, twice, three times. Like they do every time they promise each other.</p><p>“I’m not the one you should be worrying about,” she mutters, glancing over at Poe. Dameron is resolutely not looking at them, and she doesn’t have to infer as to why. He once told the two that he found their hand-thing to be “weird” and “cult-y.” Really, she just thinks he likes to give them privacy, as a sort of acknowledgement to the fact that while Rey and Finn and Poe are best friends, Rey and Finn are <em> best friends. </em>Platonic soulmates. Family members.</p><p>Finn gives her a look, as if to say <em> he’s not so bad. </em> Of course Finn defends him. He <em> always </em> defends Poe, even when he doesn’t deserve it.</p><p>“She’s not alone, anyway,” Poe cuts in, gesturing to the tell-tale pitter patter of claws racing down the hall. “BB’ll take care of her.” As if confirming Poe’s assessment, the speckled dog comes up to nuzzle at Rey’s ankles. </p><p>“Okay, okay,” Finn says, flashing her a smile. “I’ll try to smuggle out some cocktail shrimps for you to have later.”</p><p>Rey’s stomach rumbles in gratitude.</p><p>“Oh, so it’s okay to steal and scheme when it’s your idea?” Poe bristles, wry and mocking, as the two men make their way out of the apartment. </p><p>When the door closes behind them, Rey feels a stab of guilt run through her. She shouldn’t have lied, but it’s easier than the alternative.<em> I’m a joke of a security guard because I got scared by my own nightmares. </em></p><p>She’ll tell them eventually, she knows. Just...preferably when she can laugh about it, too.</p><p>BB-8 blinks up at her, knowing.</p><p>“Don’t tell,” Rey warns. “If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll feed you table scraps for a week.”</p><p>BB-8 whines.</p><p>“Poe won’t find out. I’ll be sneaky.”</p><p>Convinced, BB-8’s tail wags in agreement.</p><p>She kneels down, fixing his ear that had flopped inside out. “Good boy.”</p><p>There’s a knock at the door. BB-8’s happy pants bleed into a low growl.</p><p>“It’s okay,” she murmurs, though she’s confused herself. “The boys probably forgot something and can’t be arsed to use the key.” It’s not completely out of the question. Their lock has been known to stick and break keys in half. Or it could be their landlord. Or a Mormon. Or a Satanist.</p><p>Rey winces. Nope, still not ready to joke about it.</p><p>Ignoring BB-8’s growls, she crosses the kitchen and grabs the doorknob. It’s cold, like it had been placed in the freezer overnight. Rey’s heart stutters in her chest. </p><p><em> No, no no. </em> And yet...</p><p>She’s afraid, but she can’t help that morbid curiosity burrowing in her heart. Was she right? Had it not been just a dream after all?</p><p>There’s a knock again. More insistent this time. And it’s just a feeling that she has, but somehow she knows that if <em> he </em> has to knock again, she won’t like the outcome.</p><p>Rey goes over to one of the kitchen drawers, fumbling for a moment before she finally finds a suitable knife. She also has her cellphone this time, tucked away in her pocket. </p><p>She’s prepared. She’s ready. She’s...probably being a bit too paranoid over a cold doorknob. </p><p>Siking herself up to the point of overconfidence, Rey holds the knife up in one hand and opens the door with the other. She sees—</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Rey,” he exclaims, and it’s Poe. For fuck’s sakes, it’s fucking <em> Poe. </em> </p><p>“What do you want?” she demands, heart pounding in her ears. She’s still not over the adrenaline rush.</p><p>Poe shoulders past her, walking over to rummage through the cabinets, “I get hungry, and I’m not paying eight dollars for a hamburger.”</p><p>“Jerky’s in the one on the left,” Rey tells him without thinking. </p><p>Poe gives her a side-eye. “Have you been stealing it?” </p><p>Rey looks down at her hands, watching how the knife gleams under the fluorescent lights. She doesn’t answer.</p><p>“Okay, next question,” Poe continues, checking the cabinet she’d recommended. “Is some creep bothering you? In Canto Bight?”</p><p>“What?” she says, too quickly to be casual. “No. Why would you say that?”</p><p>“You’re skipping work. Finn’s right. You never do that,” Poe replies. He finds the bag of jerky, right where Rey had left it. “And you answered the door with a knife.” Well, he’s got her there.</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Rey tells him, and she means it. It really <em> is </em> nothing, and it worries her how she won’t accept the fact as reality. In a way, maybe she wants it to have happened. Maybe she liked how it had felt, flirting that close to danger. Rey doesn’t like what that says about her, but she can’t keep denying it. Or maybe she can. Denial is very easy to maintain in the long-term.</p><p>Poe must pick up on her sincerity because he nods. He doesn’t press her for more details. Poe Dameron can be a pain in the ass, but at least he knows how to mind his own business. </p><p>“Good,” he cracks a smile. “So you’re just being a lazy bum tonight then? Welcome to the club. Maybe with you as a member, we’ll actually get stuff done around here.”</p><p><em> “Go,” </em> she nearly pushes him out the door, smiling a little despite herself at his chagrin. “Finn’s going to lay on the horn any second.”</p><p>“You owe me,” Poe reminds her. “Especially since you’re not sick. Big time for this, Rey. I’m talking steak dinners and foot massages, bare <em> minimum </em>.”</p><p>“We’ll negotiate,” Rey calls after him as he slips out of the apartment and down the hall.</p><p>Letting a minute or two pass to steel her nerves again, Rey glares at BB-8, “Don’t growl like that. You scared—”</p><p>Another knock at the door. BB-8 nearly jumps in the air, the hair on his portly body curling upward.</p><p>Rey rolls her eyes, stalking over and ripping the door open, “It’s not lo—”</p><p>The words die in her mouth.</p><p>The man is just as tall as she remembers. Taller, even. She’s nearly five-foot-seven herself, and she has to crane her neck up to look at him.</p><p>He’s not wearing the dark robes. Instead, he’s in a dark suit, trimmed immaculately to his form to accentuate his broadness. He has a hooked nose. Freckles. Black hair—long and tousled. He needs a haircut. </p><p>And he’s...<em> real. </em> And <em> alive. </em> And <em> here.  </em></p><p>“It’s you,” she whispers, belatedly remembering that he’s said those very same words to her.</p><p>He smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s one she’s seen on the faces of thieves and killers, when they had just brought upon devastation and horror.</p><p>Rey stumbles back and remembers, suddenly, <em> thankfully </em>, that she’s still holding the knife. She holds it out, placing a much-needed barrier between them.</p><p>He gives the weapon no attention, devoting all focus to her.</p><p>“Well,” he says coolly, arching an eyebrow. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kudos? Comments? Please?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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